Runaway Goat Cart: after Bill Traylor.
This is how the cart starts: like a bad brother and sister team hitching up the horror. The goat cart starts like this: a stuttering bobble: the path low branches patches of light the lake through the woods. Something like a smoldering fire in the nose. It starts like gumption and bad apples: those large wheels wheeling larger, cracking forward-- To fly and to die but first to shout in the buggy air. Night of mosquitoes and mud, night of uprooted trees and glee, swooping bats-- nothing to left see. They pick up speed like this: sister says no and brother says no, oh no. The blind scratch of a thicket one, two, three, four phantoms more; the scent of treeclumps in each divet. This is how the mud-matted goat runs: its slated eyes back behind its head--a fright outstripping her own muscle bands, and those freak eyes again. This is how the goat and cart run off from each other: Vaulted-- bloody nose first. The scrappiest kid fighters taken out at the knees-- and all the body parts rattling right-the-fuck-off. This, how they nearly capsize: cleaving and clawing, pounced by forces beyond their control-- starry starry stars. Starry starry scars-- the last screech inside their nonstop STOP. The cart shifts like this: BLUE is for night when the night is black. BLACK if they could see and black if they couldn't-- there's no keeping up, no way to say NO MORE-- no HELL no holy shit no Holy Shit Hell. If you want a story, come back tomorrow.
THOMAS DEVANEY is the author of The Picture That Remains (The Print Center of Philadelphia) and the nonfiction book Letters to Ernesto Neto (Germ Folios). He is the editor of ONandOnScreen, an e-journal featuring poems and videos.
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|Publication:||The Brooklyn Rail|
|Date:||Sep 1, 2013|
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